


just james

by gingerbreadlove



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Family Drama, Fitzsimmons' Child, Hydra (Marvel), Major Original Character(s), Other, Parent-Child Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-05-25 19:26:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14983958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerbreadlove/pseuds/gingerbreadlove
Summary: A child of living prodigies Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons, James Fitz has never been /just/ James. For once in his life, he's ready to have a break from everyone's assumptions of who he is. For once he'd like to be James. /Just/ James. But it all goes south when he is kidnapped out of the woods and wakes up tied to a chair. The field has never been his dream, and it takes calling upon what his parents would do to get out of the pickle he put himself in. Maybe he will learn to appreciate where--or rather, /who/--he comes from when it saves him from certain doom.





	1. 07/10/2033 17:41

**Author's Note:**

> here is a fic of an oc i've had for a while! (i'm low-key really excited to put him out here because he's my baby boy). he's fitzsimmons' son, and i'll introduce him in this story, but if you want to know more about him, he's on instagram (@yourlocaldalek). this is probably my only fic on here that has fitzsimmons as minor characters, but you'll see enough of them (and james's relationship with them) at the beginning and end of the fic! thanks for reading! hope you enjoy!
> 
> This chapter originally started with a fight between Fitz and James, but seeing as I don't want your first opinions of James to be formed around him in a yelling match (and because he usually gets along with his parents, so I don’t want anyone assuming that he doesn’t if I start off with that). So anyhow, that’s the context here and that bit may end up stuck into a later chapter :))) thanks for reading!

After storming up two flights of stairs, James let his door slam behind him, a groan coming from his throat. He hated it! He hated everything! Why couldn’t he be anyone else’s son?!

He raked his hands through his hair, the question echoing through his mind, bouncing off of a million other questions. In that moment, he wanted to be as far away from being their son as possible. James Fitz wanted to be someone other than James  _ Fitz  _ that night. James  _ Murray _ , James  _ Williams _ , hell, even James  _ Johnson  _ would be better than this. Right now, he needed to be anything other than ‘the son of Fitzsimmons’, and the best way to do that: to get out of the Fitzsimmons house. He bit his upper lip and took a weighted breath, constructing a plan.

Step 1 of escape: Prepare.

He found the first pair of shoes in eyesight and shoved them on, quickly tying the worn laces, one of which was frayed at the end. Grabbing at the jacket hung eternally on his footboard, he wrestled it on, spinning in an unbalanced circle as if it would help guide his arm through the stubborn hole. He jumped for a hat, digging it out of the prescribed bin in his closet before tumbling into the next step of his mental checklist--more of a mental summary, really, seeing as nothing was ever completely in order inside his head.

Step 2 of escape: Disable.

He spun a 180 before his eyes landed on his desk where his laptop sat. Mind you, his laptop was not  _ on _ his desk, but rather,  _ under _ it, propped regally--or as regally as possible in a casual room such as his own-- on his two-pillow stack functioning as its throne. 

“Okay…” He whispered under his breath, powering up the computer, minimizing the simulations he’d been working through earlier--though he much preferred doing everything by hand--and pulling a few quick tricks he’d learned from his uncle in order to get what he was looking for. Biting his lip and lowering his eyebrows, his fingers moved with lightning speed and ease over his keyboard. “Why does technology hate me?” Impatience echoed in his voice as a loading bar appeared on his screen along with its evil sidekicks the dot-dot-dot and the spinning circle. “Bloody ellipses.” Cursed. That was the one thing his father was right about. He didn’t know the origin story for the joke that his mother would hold over his dad’s head to their graves. All he knew was that at times like this, he agreed with it. 

After the dangers they’d been through in SHIELD, the enemies they’d made, James’s parents--mostly his dad, he presumed--had designed a top-notch, unmatched, entirely unique security system to ensure the safety of their family. In this moment, the very family they had worked so hard to protect with said system, was undetectably disabling it.

The bar on his screen jumped to full, earning a soft “Aha!” of accomplishment from the boy. He slammed his laptop closed, jumping up.

Step 3 of escape: Leave.

Swallowing hard, he narrowed his eyes at his second-story window. If he wanted the freedom of being his own person for any amount of time, he would have to overcome this fear. The latch clicked sharply as he released it, and he winced a bit, waiting for angry footsteps pounding up the stairs. When none came, he heaved the glass upward, easing out the protective screen which had been installed after he had been caught tossing camping supplies down to his best friend, Kaia, when they were young. His dad had grabbed him from behind, thinking James was about to fall out the window given that at least half of his body had been hanging out. Seven-year-old James had  _ tried  _ to explain that he indeed  _ hadn’t _ been about to fall out, that the torque on either side of the window wasn’t even at equilibrium… A screen had appeared in his window the next day. 

With difficulty, James awkwardly twisted his way out the window. He rigged a lever so he could open it later when he needed back in, and climbed up--yes  _ up _ . Being that the roof was more accessible from his room than the ground. And the ground more accessible from the roof by the means of a vertical garden stair-stepping up the west side of the house. Jumping from his windowsill into a straight-armed support on the edge of his roof proved a great deal more arduous than he had previously imagined from watching the Operations students do the skill with ease. He scrambled to get the lower half of his body onto the roof. His heart pounded through his entire body, and he paused for a breath. Sure that he had been about to fall for a moment, shock had rushed through his limbs, leaving him already exhausted as he recovered, splayed out with his back flat against the roof-tiles.

Step 4 of escape: Be Free. 

The garden wiggled precariously if James went too fast. Slowing down was not a problem for him as he looked down at the dark ground, seemingly far-off below him. A cool breeze went right through his jacket, making his hands tighten their grip on the smooth, glassed-over edging. 

_ “Focus _ .” He told himself through gritted teeth, stomach wrenching at the height. 

Focus. One foot after the other. Step. Step. Step. 

His foot hit solid ground and he smiled into the night, his entire body relaxing in relief. 

He was out! Freedom courses through his veins, making him do something he never did: run. He sprinted down the block, turning left, turning right. It was like the lullaby Wee Willie Winkie, but so much better. His hair lifted in the wind of his own speed, and his phone bounced in his pocket with every step. It wasn’t until a few half-lit blocks had flown by that his lungs reminded him this wasn’t something he usually did. 

Leaning against a light pole at the edge of the neighborhood, he grinned, sliding down to a sit and staring out at nothing, seeing only what was happening inside his mind.

His parents had never been overbearingly forceful in making him uphold their legend as Fitzsimmons, but somehow he’d ended up on their path anyway. Being raised in a SHIELD base with an IQ as high as Tony Stark’s, it was only natural for him to take the same path his parents had. There was no pressure from his parents to do so, but they had never failed to support him in his pursuits to follow them. As much as he wanted to blame them, it wasn’t his parents who made him want to be anyone other than their son. It was every damn other person on the face of the earth. Everyone who had ever heard the name “Fitzsimmons”, who had ever worked alongside the famous pair, who had ever heard tales of their genius at the Academy. Everyone who knew Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons immediately thought they knew James Fitz. He was their son after all. How different could he be? Certainly he was  _ just like them _ .

Tightly shutting his eyes, he dug the back of his skull into the metal pole. Maybe he had escaped the house—the roof that stereotyped his name—but he would never escape his thoughts. That’s why he was who he was.

Step 5 of escape: Further.

He told himself that was the answer. He needed to put more distance between himself and the house. That would help.

His lungs were still burning as he stood, picking back up at a walk. The light ebbed away on the sidewalk before spotlighting again. His worn yellow Converse dragged over the constant pattern created by the light poles, and he latched onto it. Pattern was where he lived. It was his lifeline in every situation. 

So he followed this rope of light away from his life, toward an unknown place where he could just be James. Not James Fitz. Not “the Fitzsimmons boy”. Just James. 


	2. 30/3/2026 19:38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback explaining one of James's main motives. [enter Fitzsimmons] :))))

Seated at the table for lunch, three people sit. “Mum and Da”, both professors, share a casual conversation over their classes as they chew their sandwiches. Their young boy has been told they’re a special recipe, but he prefers his two pieces of buttered toast to whatever “fanciful nonsense” they’ve decorated their bread with. He’s being oddly quiet this meal, but he gets that way sometimes, lost to the world, pondering questions that most children would never dream up.

“Mum?” The messy-haired seven-year-old pipes up suddenly, blue eyes gleaming with curiosity as they always do. 

His mother lifts her eyebrows, chuckling at something his father said, and turns to smile gently down at him, ready for whatever question is on his tongue. “Nikolas.” She replies, copying his form of address teasingly, yet keeping her tone serious enough to prompt him to continue with his question. 

“Why is that my name?” He asks, blinking up at her.

She nods, frowning a bit. This definitely isn’t the hardest question he’s asked, but it’s not his typical question type either. “Do you not like it?” She tilts her head a bit, glancing at her husband as she replies with her own question.

The boy ponders for a moment. He chews on his top lip, showing off his missing front teeth. He’s the only one at his level of schooling who hasn’t lost all of their baby teeth, but he’s not embarrassed by that fact. Rather, he’s quite proud of it. He wears his genius like more like his mother than his father did at his age: unconcerned that it makes him different from everyone else. “I can’t choose till I know what it means.” He finally lands on his answer. 

His mother lets out a soft laugh and nods. “That’s fair.” She smiles, turning to his dad for help. Usually he’s the one answering their son’s questions. “Fitz?” She prompts, raising an eyebrow in his direction. 

He hums thoughtfully and starts speaking before he looks up. “Your mother and I wanted to name your name to have meaning--sort of represent the person we hoped to raise- so…” He pauses for a moment before continuing on from a different angle. “You’ve heard of Nikola Tesla, right?”

The boy nods, his legs bouncing, unable to sit still as he listens intently.

Fitz lowers his eyebrows for a moment before giving a little smile. “He was a great inventor. Respectful, brilliant, but never quite given recognition for his discoveries.” His smile looked sad for a moment as he pitied the long-dead man. “And as for the meaning--if I remember correctly--Nikolas means victory.” He gave a nod to show that was the end of his explanation, and looked at Jemma.

“Victory _ of the people _ .” She corrected him with a little smirk. Fitz replies with a teasing sneer that sent them both into a quick loop of laughter. 

Their boy sat quietly, running the meaning over in his mind. A lot of times, he thought aloud, but in this instance, his thoughts were quite private. “I’m finished..” He told them, showing his empty plate. “Can- May I be excused?”

Fitz nodded his approval and Jemma gave a soft “Of course”, both still laughing softly.

After nearly dropping his plate as he stood on tiptoes to put it in the sink, their son scrambled up the stairs. He was trembling with agitation by the time he closed his door behind him. Closing his eyes tightly, he shook his head. No. No. He wasn’t Nikola Tesla. He was Nikolas. He was his very own person. Nobody else. His dark, overgrown hair tickled his forehead until he lost sensation from shaking his head so hard. All the feelings blended together in a white background noise at the loud voice of his mind.

With a jerk, he stopped and dizzily charged forward, tearing down the elemental blocks that hung on his wall, spelling out his name. “Ni K O La S” they said.

“I don’t like that name.” He grumbled under his breath as he stacked them and stuffed them under his bed. “I’m not Nikolas.” He was very determined about this fact now. He didn’t like that name. He wasn’t someone else. He didn’t want to be named after anyone. He wanted people to be named after  _ him _ . He didn’t want anyone else’s legacy. He would make his own. Nikolas was a name for someone who couldn’t make their own way. Someone who needed to carry someone else’s past achievements in order to feel important. He was not that someone. He would be someone important all on his own.

So he folded his arms, toes curling in and out, fingers fiddling with the blankets, and thought of a new name. His dad was already Fitz. His middle name, James, was also his dad’s, but it wasn’t something Da went by. It wasn’t something with expectation tacked to it. He could make James his own great name. Make it important and meaningful without the help of the past. 

James. He would be James.


End file.
